


Teach Me

by EternalFangirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cousin Incest, F/M, Sansa aint taking any of your shit, Self-Defense, learning how to fight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-02 13:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11510568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalFangirl/pseuds/EternalFangirl
Summary: Ramsay Snow starred regularly in Sansa’s dreams.He was her curse, the monster who had shaped her, the darkness that had left his mark on her. She felt powerless in her nightmares, defenseless, wishing she could feed him to his dogs again, wishing naively for some golden knight to strike him down.But she wasn't a child anymore, and golden knights were rotten inside. She knew that now. So instead she daydreamed about the way Jon had broken Ramsay's face, about the blood and snow, about the sound of bones crunching.“Teach me,” she told Jon. “Teach me how to fight.”





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I plan for this to be a short fic, probably five chapters (or less). The next one is already written.

Ramsay Snow starred regularly in Sansa’s dreams.

 

He was her curse, the monster who had shaped her, the darkness that had left his mark on her. During the day, she refused to think of him, refused to give him this power over her. There was so much to do, and such little time, that it wasn’t a difficult task to banish her latest husband from her thoughts. No one around her mentioned him, and that was just as well. Sansa wanted him forgotten.

 

It was hard to forget him at night, when her sleeping mind conjured up his loathsome face and oily smile. He had been so much like Joffrey, only worse. Joffrey had been a bored child with a toy, whereas Ramsay had been a cruel man with a penchant for pain and suffering. She always ended up awake in the middle of the night, her fists red and angry where she bit on them to muffle her sobs. She mustn’t let anyone see her weakness. She was the Stark in Winterfell.

 

After several days of trying draughts and tinctures, Sansa nearly gave up. Nothing worked, and she could feel Jon’s concerned gaze taking in the bags under her eyes in the mornings. She smiled bravely at him, told him not to worry about her. He didn’t look convinced.

 

“You can come sit with me for a while,” he mumbled at her one night, when the servants were still clearing away dinner. He looked uncomfortable, but Jon always looked uncomfortable when the servants were doing anything. He wasn’t used to being served.

 

Sansa was surprised by the invitation, even if it was mumbled. “I wouldn’t want to disturb--”

 

“We can sit quietly, if you like--”

 

“--you before bed, Jon,” she finished lamely. She wasn’t sure why she was intent on refusing. In the end, she accompanied him to his solar, and had one of her maids bring her the basket of clothes that needed mending.

 

It was peaceful, hearing the scratch of his quill or his heavy sigh as he read through the reports from the granaries. She sat by the fire, his torn gambeson in her hands, her needle steady as it repaired the rip in the shoulder. Ghost padded into the room after a while, looked between Jon’s desk and the inviting hearth, and decided to join Sansa. He was huge now, his red eyes dancing in the firelight, and Sansa wondered if Lady would look this menacing if she were alive right now.

 

She didn’t realize when or how she fell asleep, but this time she knew she was dreaming. Ramsay’s grin was mischievous and haughty, and his proprietary hand on Lady’s scruff was cruel. Lady sat obediently, of course she did, but she whimpered at Sansa for help all the same. Snow was covering the courtyard of Winterfell around them, falling prettily from a grey sky above. She was home, where she had played with Lady all those years ago, where she had led her dear direwolf around on her leash, where she had finally found solace. 

 

And  _ he _ was here, in her home.

 

“Not her,” said Sansa. She had intended to command it, but the words were a frightened whisper. She didn’t move to help Lady. She  _ couldn’t. _

 

“But she’s so pretty, Sansa,” said Ramsay, stroking Lady’s scruff. He looked like a spoiled child who was being refused a toy--hurt and angry. “Her skin would feel so soft spread on the floor of my chambers!”

 

“No,” she said, horrified as his hand started to squeeze cruelly, as Lady whimpered and gasped for breath. He was going to kill her, and Sansa couldn’t stop him.

 

She screamed in fear and surprise when a shadow moved silently past her. It took her several moments to realize it was Jon, angry and brutal. He attacked Ramsay with a war cry that made Sansa flinch, but she didn’t look away. She couldn’t. There was raw power in the way Jon moved, straddling Ramsay where he had fallen, the better to aim at his nauseating face. 

 

She finally found the courage to move forward, to watch the muscles move in Jon’s back and arms as he pummeled her tormentor. The sounds were music to her ears. They should have felt ugly, or wrong. She had never been bloodthirsty, but right now, every drop of blood from Ramsay’s broken face felt like a debt owed to her. So she watched, and refused to feel guilty. 

 

Finally, Jon stood up straight and moved towards her. Ramsay wasn’t moving anymore. It was over.

 

“Sansa,” said Jon, his raw knuckles wrapped around her shoulder.

 

“Thank you,” she said to him, meaning it. “Thank you, Jon.”

 

He continued to shake her, strangely enough. “Sansa,” he said again, and suddenly she was awake.

 

She had to blink several times before she remembered that she had been dreaming, that Jon’s confusion and soft smile were warranted. She was still in the chair by the fire, the torn gambeson clutched in her bloodless hands. She loosened her grip, and sat up straighter. Jon had shed his surcoat belt, obviously ready for bed. Ghost had fallen asleep at her feet.

 

She stared at his knuckles for a while, aware that she was confusing him, but still unwilling to let go of her dream. 

 

“You fell asleep,” he said abashedly. “You were mumbling in your sleep. I thought...” He trailed off without explaining why he had woken her up, going back to his desk.

 

That was curious, she thought. She had barely spoken in her dream. It had been more important to watch him. He had been the gallant knight in the dream, the one that come to her rescue. But in life there were no gallant knights. There were people with power, and the ones without power. If she wanted to be rescued from the ugliness of the future, she would have to be her own knight.

 

“Teach me,” she whispered, and smiled when he looked up at her. “Teach me how to fight.”


	2. Steel in my hands

Jon hadn’t taken readily to the idea.

 

There were several reasons for his apprehension, Sansa knew. He was hurt that she didn’t think he could protect her, at first, but then she had asked him what she was supposed to do if he died fighting the coming threat. 

 

He had been so shocked to hear her matter-of-fact discussion of death that she had wanted to laugh in his face. “Brienne--”

 

“Is a soldier, a good one. She will fight by your side, and may fall by your side.” Sansa huffed out a breath and thought once again how Jon was so much like their sister. Arya had been resolutely pigheaded too. “I am going to learn how to defend myself, Jon. I am going to learn how to fight. It doesn’t matter to me who teaches me.”

 

She knew he still thought of her as the child she once was, with clearly defined activities that were and weren’t fit for a lady. It brought a fond smile to her face, the way he tried to mind her sensibilities, the way he tried to shield her from the ugliness of the world.  _ I have seen the ugliness, _ she wanted to tell him, but didn’t. She liked the way he thought of her--pure and gentle. She wasn’t sure there was enough of that left in her, but it was nice to pretend with him.

 

He had acquiesced after a while, telling her that he would help her best he could. “I am no teacher,” he grumbled. “But I will try if you want me to. I will tell you where and when.”

 

Sansa knew why they couldn’t just practice in the courtyard like she had seen the boys do growing up. She was the lady of Winterfell, and she had an image to maintain. Learning to fight off unwanted advances was not going to look good in front of the smallfolk, at least until she knew what she was doing. She remembered Arya, the scruffy look and skinned knees. Not what she wanted her people to see.

 

She wondered if she should stitch herself a pair of breeches too, but Jon shook his head when she mentioned it. “You will be wearing a dress when--if--something happens,” he said. “Learn in a dress, then you can fight in it later.” He gave a grim smile. “It will be my first time watching someone fight in a dress.”

 

Sansa decided she would wear breeches all the time if fighting in a dress proved difficult. She laughed out loud when she imagined the look on Jon’s face.

 

She was in a dress when she finally made her way to the First Keep, her hair in a strict braid and her sturdiest boots on her feet. Jon had asked her to be there at first light, and she had spent the entire night twisting and turning, both worried and excited. She knew Littlefinger would find out about this, but she didn’t really care. There was nothing wrong with learning how to fell her enemies. People like him were the reason she needed to learn.

 

“I have a gift for you,” said Jon softly when she found him. He was standing in the middle of what had once been the Hall, and the sombre atmosphere made her whisper too.

 

She moved closer, noting the way he was dressed, with his cape absent and his gloves tucked in his belt. Her gaze drifted to the little present he held, wrapped in cloth. “What is it?”

 

He didn’t meet her eyes when he carefully unwrapped the present, but he did look up when she gasped. He started to prattle nervously, she could  _ feel  _ him talking, but all her senses were focused on the dagger.

 

It was  _ beautiful _ . Sansa had always thought weapons of war to be ugly, necessary things, but her dagger was no less deadly for its beauty. The blade was curved, the grip made of some exotic blue stone that caught the early morning light to wink at her. The snarling steel wolf that made up the pommel made her swallow hard to keep from crying. “Lady...” she whispered, choking on her tears.

 

“It’s… it’s too much, isn’t it?” She heard Jon say. “I know you like pretty things, so I had some Lapis Lazuli brought in with our other shipments… I shouldn’t have, who’s ever heard of a blue dag--” He finally stopped talking when she hugged him, barely avoiding the dagger itself. 

 

“Thank you,” she whispered into his ear, smiling at how flustered he was. The embrace was not helping with the nerves, it seemed. She stepped back. 

 

“Take it,” he said hoarsely. “Try it out.” She grabbed it gingerly, staring at the grey direwolf pommel. “You need to hold it better, Sansa,” he said patiently. “It won’t bite you.”

 

She smiled at his attempt at a joke, and changed her grip till she was holding the dagger like she would to drive it into someone’s heart--her fist was around the grip, her thumb cradling the direwolf head. All she had to do was swing down at some imaginary opponent, and the dagger would be buried in his chest. 

 

But Jon tutted gently and reached out to fix her grip. “You aren’t going to just hack with it,” he explained as he fixed her grip, turning the dagger around so that her thumb was now tucked beneath the blade. She was holding it more like she would hold a knife while chopping vegetables now. “It’s a part of your arm, you are going to use it like a limb.” He smiled at her as he stepped back. “If you hold it like this, you can move it every which way you want.” When he nodded, she waved it around aimlessly, realizing instantly how much more easily she could thrust forward. It still made her feel incredibly silly.

 

“How does it feel?” he asked.

 

Sansa thought about it for several minutes while she envisioned slashing at Joffrey’s face. “I don’t know.” 

 

Jon laughed, and then they began in earnest. Sansa was appalled when he asked her to attack him. “You won’t hurt me,” he said with a condescending smile, and that was all the impetus she needed to attack. “Just don’t let me touch you.”

 

Unfortunately, he was right. He seemed to dance out of her reach as soon as she moved, tapping her lightly with warm, calloused hands every few seconds. She felt his fleeting touches on her shoulder, her waist, and once at the back of her neck. It was frustrating. When he whipped the blade out of her grasp, she simply threw up her hands with a cry of frustration.

 

“You need to take better care of her weapon,” he chided.

 

“I have only just gotten it!” The need to whisper was lost now, with the blood thumping in her ears. “I know nothing about caring for weapons.”

 

“I didn’t mean--” Jon broke off with a huff and started again. “You need to keep it safe and in your hand. Don’t lose your dagger.” 

 

She would have laughed at the obvious advice, but he  _ had  _ just disarmed her. “How? I need to attack with it.”

 

He thought about it a moment. “Take it from me,” he said finally. “And watch me.”

 

She waited for a beat, thinking about her move. Jon stood with his feet planted wide, and showed her what he meant. He kept the dagger close to his side, using his left hand to distract her when she stepped forward. The hand was in her face, obscuring her view, pushing her away. She didn’t even notice the blade till she felt the cold steel at her throat.

 

"Don’t lead with the dagger,” said Jon. “You keep your weapon close till you see an opening to use it,” He smiled sheepishly as he stepped back. “Your other hand should be protecting your dagger, Sansa. You don’t want to lose it.”

 

He gave her the dagger back, and they began to practice again. He told her not to let him touch her again, and she spent the morning trying to fight of his advances. He would ask her to stop when he thought of something else she could improve, like planting her feet properly before swinging. There was a lot more of the physical aspect in fighting with a weapon than she had expected, with how she was supposed to stand or move, or how she was supposed to thrust her new weapon. He stopped her nearly every ten seconds. He taught her to bend her knees a little, finding more reach with her knife without having to come closer, and then tried not to laugh when she tried it and almost fell over. Her attacks had renewed vigor after that.

 

By the time they broke apart her lessons, Sansa was sweaty and miserable, and her stomach was growling with hunger. She wished she had brought some water along. They left the First Keep, nodding to the smallfolk who were milling about the yard. Jon was smiling at her. “You did well, Sansa.”

 

Sansa tried to stretch her tired arms discreetly. The ache in them was astounding. “I let you touch me a hundred times,” she said morosely.

 

“Well, maybe not a hundred,” he said solemnly. And then, after a beat, “It was more like two hundred.”

 

Sansa was too tired to even smack him on the head like she wanted to.


End file.
